


Time to Run, Seeing Stars

by waitingtobelit



Series: with starry feet [4]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Clubbing, Cuddling & Snuggling, Drunken Shenanigans, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Karaoke, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-06
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-10 13:14:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/786428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waitingtobelit/pseuds/waitingtobelit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A flapper, a deity, and a daughter of the underworld, they made for a most unholy trio.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time to Run, Seeing Stars

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: I wrote this basically because I love all the ladies in Les Mis and I wanted to write these girls in particular being epic friends. 
> 
> Warnings: Unwarranted advances, violence, vague references to Eponine’s past. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with Les Miserables. This was written for recreational purposes only.

To look at the girl with the cropped, golden hair perched at the end of the bar, one assumes her unable to hold much more than a simple cocktail. She possesses all the delicate features one might expect to find in an impressionist painting, from the pallor of her cheeks to the fragility of her smile. One hardly expects her to be older than seventeen. Yet Cosette smiles to herself as she downs half of her glass of whiskey, her third of the night, with all the ease of a practiced drinker. She relishes the stares around her, the look on the bartender’s face as he tries to process that someone who so resembles a doll can hold her own in such a boisterous environment. She lives for these ways in which people underestimate her.

As the liquid burns its way down her throat, she relishes in the way strangers paint her as some sort of angel with their hungry gaze, devouring her hair and her eyes as blue as a spring day without clouds. They think her innocent in her short, off-white dress and all its beaded glory. They mistake her for an ingénue when, in fact, she exudes the liberation of a flapper. She blooms among the thunder instead of wilting; they step back, mouths agape as they struggle to put her in place. But Cosette is not a butterfly to be pinned beneath a sheet of glass. She is the lark in the wind above the wildflowers. She goes where her own will takes her, out of the grasp of inhibition and those who would tether her to the crevices of the earth.

Tonight, her will pulsed for spontaneity with such an ache that she could not ignore it. Back in their apartment, she caught Eponine’s restlessness as she paced back and forth. Musichetta watched her from the couch, lounging on her arms after a long day at work. Lacking in her usual drinking buddies because of their respective jobs, Eponine tapped her fingers against her olive-toned skin as she paraded about the living room.

“This is crap.” Cosette had announced from her position on the floor. She had been perusing some issue of Vogue, flipping through the pages without lingering on any of the designs. Jehan had been away for almost two weeks now, visiting family in England. Yet even if he had been near, she would still be frustrated. She yearned for excitement beyond their midnight walks and flower crowns. “We should do something, just us girls.”

“Here, here!” Eponine nodded enthusiastically as she began to walk with more of a bounce in her step. “It’s been too long since our last girls’ night out.”

“Have we ever really had just a girls’ night out though?” Musichetta spoke up from the couch, playing with the ends of her black curls. “I mean, without at least one of the boys present?”

Her question caught all of them off guard. Cosette, chin resting her hand, leaned forward to close the magazine with a thoughtful frown.

“You know, I don’t think we ever have.” She pushed herself off the floor as Eponine flopped beside Musichetta on the couch. “Usually at least two of the boys manage to crash.” She looked pointedly at Eponine.

“Or Jehan tags along.” Eponine smiled in response, putting her best pokerface to good use before bursting into giggles at the red spreading across Cosette’s face like wildfire.

“Or my boys find some way into it.” Musichetta interjected, moving her knees up under her arms with her own graceful smile. “You can’t really blame them, though. We are the life of any party.”

Friday nights in Cosette and Eponine’s apartment have always illuminated the different ways their friendship worked. Cosette, all gently teasing whimsy, inspired spur of the moment ideas as Eponine, the firecracker spirit ready to meet any challenge thrown her way, anchored them into reality. Musichetta balanced the pair of them with her nurturing humor that unified the girls whenever they clashed.

“But of course we are.” Eponine agreed, leaping off the couch. “And besides, I have a killer pair of heels that I’ve been dying to break in.”

“Another donation from your parents?” Cosette asked with a knowing grin.

“But of course.” Eponine smirked while Musichetta rolled her eyes, though she said nothing.

Eponine rarely spoke of her family life. She had opened up to Cosette only in their second year of university, but even then she had left out significant details with defiance in her eyes. All Cosette really knew was that her parents were the head of some sort of criminal ring, the Patron-Minette, and that through working multiple jobs, Eponine had managed to get herself and her younger brother, Gavroche, out of their influence just before she had started university. Cosette understood that not all of these jobs were strictly legal; the way Eponine constantly smoked and went out to get drunk with Bahorel and Grantaire told her more about her past than Eponine ever would admit.

Eponine still saw her parents on the streets, occasionally. Whenever she did, she threw herself behind a lamppost or around the corner of an alley and watched her parents pass. She allowed them a good five minutes head start before smoking out their current hiding place and helping herself to a decent amount of their stash. She never took too much; just enough to infuriate a father who never understood her and depress a mother who had once loved her.

Both Cosette and Musichetta constantly attempted to dissuade her from such activities. They emphasized the dangers of arrest, or worse, incurring the wrath of her family and their dangerous friends. Eponine responded in her usual way – with a shrug and the insincere smile of cat forbidden from chasing mice. Cosette and Musichetta could only wait before making another attempt.

“I can’t go out like this.” Musichetta had looked down at her casual ensemble of a peasant blouse and jeans with a frown. “And I don’t want to slow you down. Go on without me.”

“Nonsense!” Cosette leapt to her feet to grab a hold of Musichetta’s hand. “I have plenty of dresses, most of which would look better on you anyway. Come!”

 

\---

 

An hour later, they had set out for a local club, Belladonna, one of Eponine’s preferred haunts, dressed to kill. Cosette set her white dress with a pair of golden flats (she never learned to walk in heels) and an old headband she had discovered in the back of her closet. Musichetta, wearing Cosette’s short, lilac summer dress, and her own, silver heels, resembled Thalatte with her hair spilling out of a loosely formed bun and the rosebud earrings dangling from her ears. (The dress fit her body so well, Cosette insisted that she keep it.) Eponine, however, outshone the pair of them with her outfit of a black miniskirt so tight it appeared to be painted onto her skin and a scarlet tank top riding slightly up with each step she took. She looked like a modern incarnation of Sin personified. A flapper, a deity, and a daughter of the underworld, they made for a most unholy trio, a notion that sent shivers up Cosette’s spine as they entered the club.

As Eponine so succinctly put it, “We’re here to fuck shit up.”

“Hell yeah we are.” Musichetta grinned in agreement, the glitter of her violet eye shadow catching the multitude of lights bursting forth from the dance floor.

“This place won’t know what hit it.” Cosette said as they made their way into the crowd.

Now Cosette sits alone with her whiskey, smiling at Eponine and Musichetta off on the floor. They blaze across the room, their movements as reckless as branches caught in a hurricane. Eponine, after her fifth shot of something vodka-inspired, brandishes her hips back and forth like a whip. She looks like an enraptured fairy, her long hair come loose from the ponytail she’d had it up in and the neon lights elongating the movements of her body into wings.

Musichetta, not quite as far gone after two rounds of sex on the beach, moves with the same reckless spirit as Eponine but with a more refined grace. Her limbs move as though caught in an abstract painting, fluid yet dependent on the details surrounding her. The darkness between flashing lights transforms her into a collage of shadows. Caught up in the moment, Musichetta can’t help but indulge in a few attempts at a pirouette as Eponine laughs beside her.

They pause to turn for a moment, beckoning Cosette to join them with frenzied hand gestures and wolf-like grins made sharper underneath the lights. Cosette declines with a quick shake of the head, content for the moment to sit with her drink. For all that she loves to dance, Cosette is not used to the intensity nor the speed of the dancing to be found in a club. So she drinks in the frantic energy of frenzied limbs just as much as she gulps down the whiskey in her glass before catching her breath, waiting for the right moment to return to her friends.

“Well, aren’t you a pretty little thing?”

She’s buzzed enough that the sudden elbow, draping itself in front of her drink as she sets it down on the counter, blurs at the edges. As she follows the length of the arm back to its owner, she fights down her immediate urge to roll her eyes and toss the remainder of her drink into his face.

Sitting next to her on her left, the man appears somewhat familiar with his green eyes and hair that almost matches hers in color. He dresses like an asshole, she thinks, taking in the upturned collar of his overly tight dark blue shirt and grey pants that fail to completely cover him. (She tries not to judge, but alcohol always brings out her snark, a habit which Eponine encourages by buying her another round.) She takes refuge in her whiskey from the overwhelming presence of his cologne, a musky scent that might smell nice if only he’d applied less of it. The fedora resting haphazardly on his head doesn’t help matters much; nor does the way he lounges against the bar, with the lazy confidence of a tiger assuring itself of the vulnerability of its prey. She inches away from him as subtly as she can while attempting to figure him out.

“What’s the matter, pretty thing? Cat got your tongue?” He leans in closer to her as she scoots her chair away from him to the best of her ability. The glaze coating his eyes reveals the state of his sobriety, or rather, lack thereof. She struggles to win against her urge to toss her drink in his face, but she finds her will faltering the more he leers at her with those eyes that remind her of another era in time.

“Actually, I have a name.” She says before downing the rest of her drink. She’s entirely too sober to deal with him.

“That’s the spirit, darling. So what is it?” Apparently incapable of taking a hint, he leans in again and that’s when realization hits Cosette like a hangover. _Oh dear Christ._

The man poorly attempting to hit on her is none other than Theodule Gillenormand, Marius’ cousin. They met by accident while she was still dating Marius. She remembers that night, one of the earliest in their relationship. They had just eaten dinner, having walked out of the restaurant to wander wherever their feet decided to take them. Theodule had crashed right into Marius, almost knocking the smaller man to the ground. He never apologized, instead hitting on Cosette right in front of him, continuing even after Marius had explained that they were dating.

“But don’t you know about him, darling?” Theodule had the grin of a poet overly confident in his own verses. “Walked out on his only family like they’d never done anything for him his entire life, the ungrateful bastard. Grandfather misses you terribly, you know.”

Marius’ expression, normally so vibrant and full of life, had hardened into steel at his cousin’s words, particularly at ‘bastard,’ which, Cosette had understood, Theodule to use with particular care. His arm, wrapped gallantly around Cosette’s waist, dropped into a clenched fist by her side. She had turned to find his entire body trembling, as though electrified. He had appeared torn between shouting and crying, his eyes constantly blinking even as he glared at Theodule and his thin frame on the verge of collapse at any moment.

She still can taste her own fear at seeing him in such a state, a state she learned to face whenever they broached the subject of his past with his family.

“You don’t want a man like that.” Theodule, still provoking Marius with his taunting eyes, said, sauntered closer towards Cosette. “I’m a doctor; I can take care of you.”

Cosette had sensed Marius’ intention to lunge seconds before he even made the attempt, so she clasped his arm and dragged him away. That he never really struggled against her spoke volumes. Marius had growled, but ultimately Cosette lead him away without much effort as Theodule guffawed like a politician infatuated with his own cleverness.

“That’s right, little darling. Get him home before the young pup bites off more than he can chew.”

His parting words linger in her mind now like a cheap refrain from an even cheaper pop song. She remembers what Marius had told her that night back in her dorm room, how Theodule stood to inherit every bit of his grandfather’s fortune ever since Marius had walked out on that life. She remembers holding him while he shook in her arms, fighting desperately not to cry. Even now, Theodule’s grin curves with the haughty assurance of one whose future waits for them lined with gold. Cosette tosses back the rest of her drink with a shudder, attempting to drown out the nausea rising to her throat.

“Here, let me refill that for you, sweet thing.” Before she can protest, he beckons the bartender over and she finds herself faced with another full glass of whiskey. She does not pretend to deny the liquid’s tempting presence, but even still, she ignores it.

“Hey, wait a minute.” Theodule leans, putting his hand out to halt the progress of her chair. “I know you. Why do I know you?”

“I don’t know.” She keeps her gaze trained on the neon signs behind the bar, her left hand gripping the side of her dress. His gaze distorts the air around her with its lewd heat and even cruder intentions. Her face falls into a grimace but she no longer cares.

“I’d know that look anywhere! How could I forget? My dear cousin’s darling Colette!” He laughs like the tires of a rundown car screeching against the pavement. She does not correct him as her shoulders tense. She does not want him to remember her name.

“You haven’t touched your drink, Colette.” He nudges the glass in her direction, a gesture which finally cracks her resolve.

“Look, I appreciate the gesture, but I’m really not thirsty.” She doesn’t have the patience and he lacks the ability to comprehend subtlety, so she pushes the glass back to him as she stands. She finds it useless to remind him that she is already taken. “If you’ll excuse me, my friends are expecting me.”

She turns to go when he reaches out to grab her by the wrist. The bar shrinks in that moment; the music and the conversations around her rising to an overwhelming crescendo. His grip traps her in a crevice between alcohol and whispered promises. Nausea again rises to her throat as she turns to catch his lecherous grin grown even hungrier beneath the bar lights.

“What’s the rust, sweet thing?” The endearment drops from his lips like poison. “Your friends aren’t going anywhere.”

“They’re expecting me. Excuse me.” Her voice rushes out harsh, rendered somewhat hollow by her desperate intakes of breath. She yanks her wrist from his grasp with more force than he expects, as he swears under his breath and she all but throws herself into the crowd to rejoin her friends.

“Do you need me to kick his ass?” Eponine meets her before she reaches the dance floor, dark eyes shining both with booze and concern as she glances over at Theodule. Cosette grasps her hands, squeezing them briefly as she shakes her head.

“Don’t worry about it. I just want to dance.”

“About time!” Eponine laughs as she pulls Cosette by the hand into the pandemonium of the dance floor.

The music pulses around them like a rapid heartbeat, a rush of an endless techno remix of the current top 40 trends. The lights cut the crowd into fragmented shadows that burst with a volcanic frenzy. Eponine all but shoves Cosette between herself and Musichetta so that she almost chokes on the sudden lack of distance. As soon as her body begins to move, she breathes again, absorbing the air around her like another shot to get drunk on; her hips tremble as she whips her body around, arms spread as though she means to take flight. She feels as lightweight as she looks, finally free from the stress at the bar.

Occasionally her body grazes against Eponine or Musichetta. Just a flash of leg against thigh, or exposed hip to exposed hip. Ecstasy flares through these connections like bursts of flame, burning along their skin. They belong to no one but the music, their only lovers in that moment the next shifts in melody. They are the three Fates spared for a brief moment from their duties, empowered by the bodies around them swelling in time with the beat. They entangle themselves only with their own strings.

Sometimes Musichetta tries to inquire further about Theodule but the music and the crowd proves too loud for anything other than a shake or nod of the head. Mostly, Cosette throws herself into the tide of bodies, music, and the lingering fragrance of booze. She releases her hold on reality in favor of the wonderful fantasy the three of them have created amid the rush of people and lights.

So when a pair of arms slips around her, squeezing her at the waist, she is drunk enough both on alcohol and the atmosphere of the club to assume the grasp belongs to an overly touchy Eponine, who only grows more personal the more she drinks. She leans into the embrace with a giggle, until the sight of Eponine dancing up on Musichetta a few feet away turns her blood to ice.

Instinct, fueled by long suppressed anger, instantly sobers her. She does not pause to consider her actions. She spins herself hard enough around to shrug his arms off of her like they are made of weak clay. Her right arm pulls back in a flash of a second before her fist collides into his face like a comet into the surface of the Earth.

Theodule falls to his knees cursing, his face contorted both in pain and disbelief. Cosette doesn’t linger, or offer to help him up though the voice in the back of her head that sounds suspiciously like her papa tells her she really ought to in spite of everything. She straightens her shoulders as she almost runs to the ladies room, her right hand reverberating from the force of the blow.

She beelines to the sink, quickly turning the faucet to splash cold water into her face before checking to assess any possible damage to her hand. She lets out a quick breath when she finds nothing but her own pale skin. Her mascara and eyeliner, both barely waterproof at best, run down her face in rivulets. She is almost unable to look at herself in the mirror.

“Cosette, holy shit.” Musichetta materializes like a ghost beside her, face wide in a mixture of disbelief and awe. “What the hell happened?”

Cosette settles her hands on the counter next to the sink as her breathing returns to normal. She feels caught between sobriety and a strange high from her indulgence in sudden violence.

“I don’t know, but it felt…”

 At a sudden loss for words, she exhales slowly and runs a hand haphazardly through the short length of her hair. Her heart leaps against her chest as though it might break through her skin from sheer force of will. Guilt tinges the edge of her thoughts as she considers what her papa might make of the situation, but then she remembers Theodule’s arms around her, his sense of entitlement as he consistently ignored her refusals of his offers, and the guilt dissipates like steam. 

“…pretty damn fantastic.”

Cosette is no longer a child, a fact of which she sometimes has to remind herself. As much as she loves flowers and poetry, as much as she aspires to the goodness of her papa, she still possesses the same reckless wilderness that defined her earliest youth. Attempting to tame it with the experiences of her adult life proves a turbulent combination that, at times, shoves her into morally ambiguous territory. Though she lacks the means to navigate through such a space with ease, Cosette constantly surprises even herself with her ability to keep her head above water.

“I’ll bet. Fuck, I didn’t know you had it in you.” Musichetta pats her on the shoulder, sporting a drunken grin that sobers the more Cosette stares at her, even as she almost falls over and into the mirror. Cosette shares a small smile as she places an arm around Musichetta’s shoulders to steady her. “Who was that, anyway?”

“Theodule, Marius’ cousin.” Eponine replies as she bursts through the door, allowing it to slam behind her with the wicked grin hanging off her face like the corner of a torn painting. “Still walking around with the same stick up his ass as ever.”

“Is he alright?” Cosette inquires, trying to keep her voice neutral and failing. She wants him to bleed as much as tries to convince herself otherwise. She gently rubs Musichetta’s shoulders to distract herself from the thought.

“You broke his nose, I’m pretty sure.” Eponine positively beams at Cosette. “I need you to start coming out with me and the guys. We need more people with your right hook on our side.”

“Shit, he’s probably going to press charges.” Cosette winces as she closes her eyes and drops her arm from Musichetta. She doesn’t know that she can bear her father finding out.

“No, he’s not.” Eponine replies with such finality that Cosette starts, opening her eyes to find Eponine perched on the sink before her with a triumphant grin on his face. “The boy’s an open book. Plenty of dirty little secrets to be read in his face alone. I also happen to know his, uh, sleeping habits from one of my old friends.”

“Trust me, Lark. You’re going to be fine.” Eponine places her hand on her shoulder and squeezes. “But we probably shouldn’t stick around here.”

“Agreed. It’s too loud, anyway. I’ve probably already lost half of my hearing.” Musichetta nods with enthusiasm. “So back to your place, then?”

“No.” Cosette almost shouts, causing both Eponine and Musichetta to start. “I mean. I don’t want to let that asshole win by ruining the rest of my night. Let’s stay out. Please?”

“You know me, I’m down for anything.” Eponine says, jumping off the counter.

“I’m up for whatever you guys want to do.” Musichetta says, moving away from the counter to stand next to Eponine. “Let’s just get out of here.”

 

\---

 

They wind up at another one of Eponine’s favorite haunts, a dive bar simply called “Noir.” (“There’s no way that dick will ever show up here. He’s too rich for this crowd.” She promises Cosette.) She bombards the other girls with her regales past with Grantaire and Bahorel, from one of their many narrow escapes from the police to their multitude of bar brawls. Cosette and Musichetta giggle instead of their usual attempts at a lecture. Cosette especially appreciates the distraction. She leans in and hugs Eponine as they make their way through the narrow door.

 Cosette sits with Musichetta and Eponine as they all three nurse beers. Though grime bleeds down the walls onto the barstools, though the floor is littered with crumbs and suspicious looking stains, the lesser crowd proves less boisterous than at Belladonna. Cosette almost chokes on the thicker cigarette smoke yet inhales it like morning air all the same. The flickering bar lights and the outlines of Musichetta and Eponine start to blur at the edge of her vision; the warmth of the alcohol pools in her stomach as she leans into the wood of the counter with a sloppy smile.

Eponine, always quick with the tiniest details even while slightly intoxicated herself, takes advantage and nudges Cosette’s shoulder, pointing to the miniscule stage in the center of the room with the karaoke machine resting upon it. When Cosette refuses to rise to her baiting, Eponine resorts to poking her more insistently.  

“Come on Lark. There’s no one here you know.” She intones, mischief dancing in her dark eyes as she continues to prod at Cosette’s bare shoulders. “Sing us a song!”

“You sing?” Musichetta picks up on their conversation from the right of Eponine. “I never knew you sang.”

“Well, the secret’s out now.” Cosette shrugs as Eponine makes infantile pleading noises, Musichetta eventually joining in with her.

Cosette considers the currently unused machine as she glances around the room, taking note of the way leather jackets blur into pleated skirts. Her upper body sways in time to a silent rhythm as she takes a long sip from her drink. Tonight is a night for relinquishing inhibitions and absorbing the little moments like specks of light in a photograph, she ultimately decides. Here, beside two of her closest friends, she feels at home enough that she finds that, yes, she does, in fact, want to sing.

“Okay, well. Only after I finish this drink.” She gulps down the little beer remaining in the bottle before wiping her mouth across her bare arm. “And only if you two come up there with me.”

“Done!” Eponine grins as she pulls on Cosette to her feet.

 

“Well-” Before Musichetta can finish her protest, Cosette has her trailing by the hand behind her.

They make their way to the stage in a whirlwind of giggles and stumbling into each other. Cosette steps on Eponine’s left foot as Musichetta collides into Cosette’s back. Fellow patrons either scoff or smile knowingly as they attempt to navigate between occupied tables.

Eponine talks to the waiter standing near the stage almost out of sight, an old friend judging by the way they smile together. She turns to give them the thumbs up before gesturing Cosette and Musichetta onto the stage. They manage to make it without further stumbling.

“I hope you ladies don’t mind but I already picked out our song.” She greets them as she bounces towards the one microphone, which she promptly hands to Cosette.

“Are we going to actually know the words?” Musichetta, well aware of Eponine’s penchant for obscure, aggressive alternative bands from other countries, asks with a smirk as she takes her place next to Eponine.

“Trust me, everyone knows this song. It’s a classic.” Eponine nods as she shoves Cosette to the front of them.

Cosette, surrounded by friends and flushed with slight intoxication, finds herself unable to resist as her mouth stretches across her face and her entire being trembles with excitement. She does not think of her past reluctance to perform for others, with the memory of last Friday night with Jehan still fresh in her memory. She does not think of earlier that evening, of poor attempts at pick-up lines and punches thrown. She is in her element now as the music stirs. The familiar refrain of upbeat, 80’s pop begins behind her and her smile widens.

“I come home, in the morning light; my mother says when you gonna live your life right?”

Her voice starts off soft and sweet, like the murmur of a brook. With each word, she grows in confidence, catching the pleasantly surprised looks from around the room as she throws herself into the music.

Eponine and Musichetta join in, sauntering up beside her as they all three begin to shake their hips in unison. They slur the words and they miss lyrics, but by the second verse they all prance about the stage, Cosette shaking her head as though trying to throw it off her shoulders, and Eponine twirling Musichetta around as though they’re performing in a musical. Cosette and Eponine belt out with as much drunken passion as they can muster while Musichetta breaks away to grab Cosette by the hips. All the while, the crowd applauds and cheers, several individuals rising from their chairs to dance on the tables.

It takes ten songs and three separate employees to get them to leave the stage.

 

\---

                                                                                                                     

When they stumble back into Eponine and Cosette’s apartment, they all three toss their shows without looking into the corner of the living room. Eponine wiggles out of her miniskirt as Musichetta and Cosette shrug out of their dresses. They’ve all helped each other in and out of confining outfits over the years; partial nudity is nothing new to them.

“We should do this more often.” Cosette yawns as she throws herself down across their sofa.

“You should punch people more often.” Eponine says as she flops down on top of Cosette and curls into her.

“You should sing more often.” Musichetta adds as she climbs in between the pair of them, grabbing the lilac throw and tossing it haphazardly over their pile of limbs. “And we definitely should do this more often.”

After a brief struggle for what little space on the cramped sofa they can muster, they fall asleep in unison, cuddling.  

This is how Gavroche, armed with immaculate lock-picking abilities and a stolen iPhone, finds them in the morning.


End file.
